


The Issue on the Table

by dreamlittleyo



Series: AlexandStar HamilTrek (Oneshots) [7]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Angst, Feelings, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Mutual Pining, Rank Disparity, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots based on TOS episodes.This installment:The Naked Time. In which Washington and Hamilton cross unintended lines under the influence of a mysterious contagion.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: AlexandStar HamilTrek (Oneshots) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1051568
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	The Issue on the Table

He shouldn't be surprised that Washington is gentle. There are far more perplexing things about the situation which Hamilton is ignoring just fine. But he is disoriented with confusion and chaos and want, and yet his captain is handling him with impossible care.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton pants into the overheated air of Washington's quarters, over and over again as he writhes beneath powerful hands. "Please, please, please, please, oh god, _sir_!"

No amount of begging seems capable of goading Washington any faster, and no amount of squirming achieves any concession at all. It's ludicrous how easily Washington holds him down—one hand wrapped around both of Hamilton's skinny wrists and pinning them to the pillow above his head—while Washington's other hand works meticulously between his thighs, loosening him with lube-slick fingers.

How Washington retained the wherewithal to obtain lube when all Hamilton can think about is his impatience to feel his captain's cock moving inside him _right now_ …

It's beyond his comprehension, honestly.

Fuck, it's not like Washington _isn't_ a wreck too. There is a wild edge of emotion in his eyes, something frantic and unfamiliar. It would be terrifying on any other face, but in Washington it only stokes Hamilton's possessive desires into an even brighter flame. But despite the hungry glint, the man is being _so careful_ , and Hamilton is losing his mind.

At last the fingers disappear, and Hamilton turns his head to the side in an effort to bury a sob in the bare skin of his arm.

If Washington doesn't fuck him soon, Hamilton fears his fading grip on reality will slip and dissolve. This already doesn't feel real. He is naked in Washington's bed, and Washington put him here, and never mind how long Hamilton has wanted this. It can't actually be happening—can it?

There's a shift of weight on top of him, an intimate slide of skin against skin. Washington is naked too, and when his body covers Hamilton's completely—when wide hips nudge forward between Hamilton's thighs so that he can feel the first slick nudge of something other than fingers at his entrance—the tidal wave of sensations is nearly too much.

Hamilton's wrists are free—when did that happen?—and he wraps his arms around Washington's broad shoulders to keep him close.

A kiss catches him off guard, but he submits instantly and easily. There is a different intimacy in the soft exploration of Washington's tongue, the press of lips, the almost teasing graze of teeth. Hamilton's chest is so hot, his heart so full, that he thinks he might lose himself.

He is already losing himself. He and his captain both. Rationally, a fading sliver of awareness tells him neither of them is in their right mind. This has something to do with the outpost, the strange readings, the researchers on the planet below dead in such inexplicable circumstances. Something dangerous is going on here, and that is supposed to matter. But the safety of the ship feels irrelevant in this moment, and _all_ Hamilton cares about is how badly he needs Washington to claim him.

The kiss breaks. The hand resting on his hip slides lower—grips his thigh to press his legs wider—delves between their trembling bodies so that Washington can guide his cock forward and put the straining length exactly where it belongs.

Despite the maddeningly slow prep only moments ago, Hamilton's breath punches out of him when Washington finally penetrates him. It's been years since he let anyone close—let anyone into his bed—and his body is impossibly tight. The discomfort is every bit as welcome as the reassuring weight of Washington's body on top of him, the flutter of kisses down his throat. But welcome or not, he still breathes a low whimper when the slick length drives deep and fills him completely.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks, voice audibly shaking, body trembling so intensely that Hamilton feels every shudder against and inside him. He can tell it's costing his captain immeasurable willpower to keep still. He doubts he could manage the same if their positions were reversed.

Instead of answering with words—he has no words left—Hamilton arches along the mattress, presses himself all the more firmly against the soft, powerful muscle of Washington's chest and stomach. Wordless, goading encouragement. His breath hitches at the way even this calculated maneuver makes him more aware of the rigid cock filling him—but the movement has the desired effect. Washington stops asking stupid questions and begins fucking him in earnest.

It's an unforgiving rhythm. Hamilton's body aches with every thrust, even as pleasure sings and shivers all through him. He rolls his hips, tries to retain some control—to meet Washington halfway—but he doesn't have any leverage. He can't set the pace, can't properly participate, can't do anything at all besides accept Washington's pounding thrusts.

Hamilton feels lightheaded from all the excess oxygen his lungs are dragging in. He can feel Washington panting against his throat, his skin hypersensitive to the rush of ragged heat.

His voice unlocks. His words return—but only enough for him to breathe a shattered, " _Please_ ," as Washington's pace speeds.

# # #

It's a miracle the ship didn't crash from its steadily decaying orbit. Just like it's a miracle Doctor Burr somehow solved the mystery picked up from the research outpost before any loss of life aboard the Nelson. Washington was with the away team on that planet. He saw just how deadly the infection could be—and he will be grateful forever that his CMO prevented the same fate from befalling his crew.

He listens alongside the rest of his senior staff, through Burr's entire report. But he is still reeling too much to take in the detailed explanation. Contagion. Transmission by touch. Sabotaged inhibitions.

Excuses he will not use to defend himself.

At last there is no further business to discuss, and Washington dismisses his officers. He keeps his own expression blank with a skill born of long practice, but his insides are churning as he remains in his seat. When he glances across the table as everyone files out the door, he is shocked to realize Hamilton has stayed. His young communications chief sits stone-like and tense in the suddenly empty room. Staring at the conference table as though it has somehow personally offended him.

Washington honestly expected him to bolt. 

When Hamilton finally looks up and meets his eyes, Washington can't restrain his eyebrow-quirk of wordless question.

Hamilton scowls and goes back to glaring at the table. "Figured I'd save you the drama of summoning me to your ready room. Don't think for a second that this means we're talking about it."

"We _need_ to talk about it." Washington forces himself to keep looking at Hamilton despite the way his gut clenches. His boy appears perfectly composed aside from the anger in his face. He certainly doesn't look like he scrambled out of Washington's bed to a red alert this morning, when Burr finally convinced Lafayette of the seriousness of the crisis. His hair is swept cleanly back from his face, his uniform impeccable, his posture stiff. If it weren't for the unmistakable bruises peeking up from beneath his shirt collar—bruises bestowed by Washington's mouth—there would be nothing visually amiss.

Washington's senior officers are far too observant not to have noticed the tiny detail out of place. He wonders if they've connected the additional clues and realize who gifted Hamilton those bruises.

He can remember the entire night with jarring clarity, which means Hamilton can too. Every touch, every taste, every gasp and shudder. The delight in marking his boy after coveting him for so long. The satisfaction of stringing him along and finally claiming him. The lieutenant's body hot beneath him, impossibly tight around his cock, twisting and arching so violently at times that Washington couldn't tell if Hamilton was trying to get closer or escape.

_Please_. He remembers the shaky voice as Hamilton said the word. So many times. And it's killing him that he never stopped to ask if the mantra meant 'more' or 'stop'. The truth is, in that moment he did not care. It doesn't matter how thoroughly Burr's report has cleared all crew members of volitional wrongdoing—he will never forgive himself for failing to ask.

And he hates that he will never know.

After an agonizing stretch of silence, in which Hamilton refuses to look at him and Washington can't seem to look away, Hamilton says, "I'm not putting any of it in my report. And if you try to put it in yours, I'll tell everyone you've lost your mind."

"Son—"

"Don't call me son," Hamilton snarls, furious gaze catching Washington in an inescapable field. "Don't you _fucking_ do it. Not now, not ever again."

"I'm sorry," Washington says. Not just for letting slip an unwanted term of affection, but for _everything_. For losing his precious control and putting his hands on a subordinate. For wanting Hamilton in the first place, a transgression he has no intention of admitting. For taking so selfishly and having no idea how to remedy the harm he has caused.

"Stop looking at me like that." Hamilton abruptly shoves back from the table and stands. His hands are shaking so hard Washington can see the tremble from across the room. His expression, in the brief moment Washington can still see his face in profile, is indecipherable beneath the wrath shimmering across the surface.

"I don't know how to make this right," Washington admits, helpless and soft and allowing unaccustomed intensity to turn his voice to gravel.

"You're not supposed to make it right." Hamilton's voice is also rough with feeling, and he reaches for the transparent material of the viewport he is staring through—traces his fingers across stars and empty space—continuing to avoid his captain. "That's not something either of us has the power to do. Our only chance is to pretend it never happened."

"I can't," Washington admits, and then curses himself inwardly when the honesty makes Hamilton's shoulders bunch up toward his ears.

God. It's not fair. Hamilton looks like he's bracing for an attack, and Washington wants to scream.

For a very long time after that, neither of them says a word. Washington is still sitting at the head of the long conference table, wishing he had stood sooner. Now the moment is too fraught and too endless, and he feels trapped in place. There is no inconspicuous way for him to rise, to move, to pace his restless energy into the narrow aisle between table and bulkhead. There is nothing he can do besides wait and watch the tense line of Hamilton's back.

Unbidden memory flashes suddenly clear—a visual recollection that hits him with the force of a phaser blast. Hamilton's hair loose, tumbled down from its tight queue and grazing bare shoulders. Hamilton's eyes wide, mouth open on a gasp, cheeks flushed hot and red, pupils dilated. Unresisting as Washington drew him close and kissed him.

"What's the alternative?" Hamilton's voice, icy and sharp, cuts through the quiet conference room and jars Washington out of his unwilling reverie.

Washington sets aside the distraction with difficulty. Rationally he knows there is no inherent contradiction in the fact that he is nauseated by the memory of touching Hamilton despite the fact that it's something he has wanted for years. Emotionally he discovers he is capable of feeling guilt for this too, and it's all he can do to keep calm.

Belatedly, he pushes up from the table himself. He is conscious of the door at the opposite end of the room, far enough away that Hamilton will not have to pass him to reach it. He won't try to prevent retreat, but he hopes Hamilton doesn't bolt. If they can't find some semblance of their old footing _now_ , then there is truly no hope for their working relationship.

He is startled to his core when Hamilton says in a suddenly soft voice, "Please don't send me away."

"Alexander…" Stupid to say his name when Hamilton has already rebuffed his affection—and yet this time there is no sign of denial.

"I know you could do it so no one suspects why," Hamilton continues in the same low, pleading voice. "Hell, you could probably make it look like a promotion. You're the captain. No one would question you transferring me to some other ship the next time we're in space dock."

"I wouldn't do that," Washington protests, and Hamilton's shoulders loosen a fraction.

" _Promise me_ ," Hamilton says with sudden intensity. He turns from the viewport and leans both hands on the table, staring across the room at Washington with absolute fire in his eyes. "The Nelson is my home. This crew is the only family I have. Promise that no matter how weird and fucked up things are between us, you won't reassign me."

Washington swallows past the lump of emotion clogging his throat and rasps, "I promise."

For just a moment Hamilton's eyes shut. The breath he draws is shaky. He looks like he might cry, though when his eyes open again they're still dry. He straightens. Drops his hands to his sides. Puts on an unconvincing mask of calm and gives Washington a tight nod.

"Thank you, sir."

Then he turns for the door, crossing the conference room in efficient steps.

"I'm sorry." The words sneak unbidden past Washington's lips, but he doesn't try to take them back. Hamilton freezes just far enough from the door that the motion sensor doesn't kick in. There is a different sort of stillness now. Washington doesn't know what to make of it. He doesn't know anything.

Finally Hamilton glances over his shoulder and says, "I am too."

Then he vanishes through the door, and Washington is alone.


End file.
